Another Lingering Battle
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: Remembering- it's another job only he can do. Spoilers for Cold Blood.


Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who. Yeah.

_Another Lingering Battle_

He's not sure, when he closes the door behind Amy, what exactly he's going to do. Breaking something seems possible. So do tears. Instead he turns to the latest mystery, concentrating on the sinking feeling in his gut as he unwraps the shard of TARDIS in his hand.

It doesn't exactly put his mind at ease.

Either way, he can't compartmentalize as well as he could in his younger days. A risk of aging, he supposes. An image of that face still lingers in his mind- that face that only he remembers.

And so he slips inside, where Amy is waiting, where Amy is smiling, with no idea of how much she just lost. How much she never had.

It takes literal effort to set the TARDIS's trajectory- to Rio, with any luck- because all he wants to do is stumble into Amy's arms and weep. But no, even that's not true. He wants somebody who understands, who remembers. But nobody does.

It isn't until a few hours later that he decides he'll make due. Amy is in her room, supposedly in bed; when she answers his knock, though, her voice is clear and not at all sleepy. She is sitting on her pillow, and her milky pale legs stretch out on the quilt before her.

There is nothing, really, stopping him now. Sure there's the age issue, but Amy Pond is now a single woman. Amy Pond has now never been engaged.

But rather than exciting him, this thought just sets him off. Hs closes his eyes against their sting, and slowly, but rather clumsily, makes his way to Amy's side. She lets him in, trustingly, and thankfully with no ulterior intentions of her own. Instead she seems to sense his pain, even if she can't understand it, and lifts the quilt for him to slip beneath. Then, still on top of the quilt herself, she lies down beside him, slinging an arm around him, and studies his face.

"What's wrong? Saved the world again, you know."

"I know," he murmurs.

"Then why the sad, slinky Doctor act?"

He can't tell her. It's not possible. Or fair.

"Today reminded me of someone, that's all. Someone who used to travel with me. A good man."

"He died?"

His nose is burning. "He's gone."

Amy brushes his bangs back from his forehead. Her hand is cool; he realizes he's flushed. "Tell me what happened."

"I can't." His voice, so soft, still manages to crack. "It's… a thing. I wish I could."

Amy slides closer as he rests his head on her downy pillow and cries. He feels her fingers on his neck and there is a brief moment of panic before he realizes that she has merely unfastened his bowtie. He raises his head only long enough to make sure that she hasn't just thrown it to the floor- she hasn't, it's been stowed on her nighttable- before returning whole-heartedly to his task of grieving. Heavy tears slide down across the bridge of his nose to darken the fabric beneath his cheek. Next to him Amy is a cool, solid presence, and he gets an accidental faceful of her thick strawberry hair as he moves instinctively closer to her. Silently, she brushes it back behind her shoulders, then puts both arms around the Doctor's trembling body.

She is all textures, Amy, all stringy hair and silk nightshirt and very slightly roughened human skin. So alive and so present and so tangible that by comparison the Doctor realizes just how tenuously Rory Williams is existing in his mind. How easy it would be to let go, to let the universe have him. To let the little diamond ring in the little red box become just another mystery. To forget why he is crying and, like Amy hours ago, to suddenly recover and come to regard the tears in his eyes as meaningless, perhaps brought on by dust.

It's not what Rory deserves, though. Little Rory Williams. Rory Who Spoke for the Humans. It's another job only he can do.

One noisy sob catches in his throat, an unexpected interruption to his pained but silent tears. This time around, he'd told himself, there was going to be less carrying on like this. But so far his promise doesn't seem to be sticking. Maybe it's just another symptom of his age.

Amy's hand brushes a few tears from his cheek.

It's another job only he can do, remembering Rory. It's another fight he'll be fighting until the day his hearts give out. For a life lived mostly on the run, he's got a lot of these, these lingering battles.

But what choice has he got- it's something that vagabonds are meant to have a lot of, choice, but there are no alternatives to this. Nothing honorable, at least.

And so he'll remember, remember Rory- Rory Williams, who was born in Leadworth, who had brown hair and, to be honest, a massive nose, and who sort of looked sad most of the time. Rory Williams who was a nurse and Amelia Pond's best friend and Amy Pond's fiancé, who knew about alternate dimensions and wanted nothing more than to settle down with the woman he loved. Rory Williams who would never father a child or grow a pony tail. Rory Williams who fought fish vampires with brooms and apologized with his dying breath. Rory Williams, who was a time traveler.

The Doctor sniffs; his arms are crossed and hugging his chest, but now he lifts one hand to scrub at his eyes. And he thinks, with fierce determination:

_Rory Williams, who was _fantastic_._


End file.
